If There Be Saviors
by Kitara Manoru
Summary: A teenaged Spock accompanies his parents on a diplomatic mission to Iridean, a planet inhibited by a vulcanoid race, only to find himself in the middle of a political coup that hinges on racial prejudice against hybrids.
1. Chapter 1

**IF THERE BE SAVIORS**

By Kitara Manoru

_Description: A teenaged Spock accompanies his parents on a diplomatic mission to Iridean, a planet inhibited by a vulcanoid race, only to find himself in the middle of a political coup that hinges on racial prejudice against hybrids._

_Disclaimer: I do not own nor intend to make any profit off of Trek or any of its characters or worlds, etc., so forth, and so on._

_A/N: I've waited ten years to share any of my Trek fanfic and eight years to share this particular one. Be kind._

_In addition, I formulated the entire Irideani world, its government, its religion, and part of its language when I had pipe dreams of writing a Trek novel. Please bear with the terminology, which I have done my best to explain along the way._

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: OBSESSIONS OF BLOOD**

I.

Praxia stood in the top room of the Kulmult Temple's tower. From the tiny window, she could see all the way to the horizon: the purple flowers of the garden below, the high stone wall of the temple, and beyond the temple wall, the edge of the dense jungle and its thick vines and towering trees. In the far distance, Praxia saw a sharp mountain range cloaked in purple haze and the two setting suns. The sight was comforting to this woman who held the office of High Healer of the Kwaykadic religion.

Iridean, she thought, was the most beautiful planet she'd seen. She'd visited only two other worlds personally, but in the past twenty years since her people had taken their first warp flight, they'd returned with several pictures of other worlds. None could compare to the stunning blues and greens of Iridean's wild jungles, the intoxicating yellows and reds of its rampant wildflowers, or the blinding whites of its snow-capped mountains.

The people of Iridean seemed to reflect their beautiful surroundings: purple-tinted skin and hair, blood the lush green of the jungle, and ears pointed like the highest mountain peak, Radona. They were hot-blooded, like the jungles and deserts, but in their best moments, they were silent and still like the sands. In their worst moments, they raged like jungle storms and vicious _corv_. Such was nature.

Contemplating and gazing at nature was second only to prayer in comforting Praxia. Nature was the gift and artistry of the Supreme Being. It was wild and beautiful and as old as time. Or nearly so. And it would likely remain—unfeeling, neutral, ageless—long after all the people were gone.

But comfort alluded Praxia this evening. High Priestess Dania had contacted her and affirmed her worst fear. "The time is fast approaching when your voice will be needed on the Senate floor," Dania's electronic message had read. "My contacts have learned that General Cural is secretly amassing troops. We fear a coup."

And there it was: the turn of events she'd been fearing for since she'd been elected to the Senate. General Cural despised democracy—that was no secret—but the world had been safe so long as he didn't gain control of both the army and the space fleet. Last season, however, he'd befriended the head admiral. And now . . .

"Now we may all be doomed," Praxia whispered to the silent walls.

The offices of high priestess and high healer had always held a special place in the hearts and minds of the Irideani people. But what could they do against the combined power of Cural, the army, and the space fleet?

If Praxia turned around and gazed out the opposite temple window, she would be looking at a far different sight than the jungle and mountains. Instead, she'd be looking at towering glass and steel towers had arched toward the sky, small silver aircraft that darted between buildings, and a sea of sparkling blue lights as the capitol revved up for another music- and noise-filled night. But she didn't turn. Not because the sights of the capitol city, Rissen, weren't comforting, but because she feared she'd see something else, too. The massive hulk of a troop or space carrier, the sign of coming times and lost freedoms.

Praxia wrapped her arms around herself and prayed. But she didn't, yet, hear any answer.

II.

He sat upon a smooth boulder high upon the jagged ridge of L-Langon and stared across the heated sand of his desert homeworld. Even at sunset, the glare on the reddish sands was nearly blinding, but his attention was drawn to the violent oranges and reds created by the refraction of 40 Eridani A's rays in the atmosphere. The evening was silent save the eerie call of a _katl'ta_ as it swooped low to catch its prey. Coming here had become automatic with time; he had begun frequenting these cliffs soon after his self-imposed _Kahs-wan_. Here, faced with the harsh aesthetics of the mountains and desert, he could meditate easier. He could be completely alone. Away from all the eyes and ears that watched and listened, with a Vulcan's intimidating patience, for him to slip, to show a vestige of humanity. Those enviable slips that logically must come from such a hybrid.

Alone, in the unassuming, blind, deaf cliffs beyond ShiKahr, Spock could sit, stare, and unconsciously allow some unacknowledged knot buried deep within his abdomen to unwind. A simple meditation aid every once and a while . . . yes, that's all. And the serenity produced was unequaled.

Today he needed such serenity. Being seventeen standard years old, Spock was facing a time of choices. Life choices. What, indeed, should he do for roughly the next 220 years of his life? Or, more simply, the next 50 or 60? That it would involve science was unquestionable, and Spock was leaning towards joining Starfleet. But the final decision was yet to be made, and he faced a father's wishes versus a son's.

Spock held back a sigh and focused on expounding upon the peace of which he'd caught a thread. Clear the mind. Attune to one's surroundings. Focus on breathing. Still the soul. Answers will present themselves.

This week had held more than the usual questions. The week, as his mother might have said, was all-around bad. He'd let some frustration show in his face during class when a classmate had severely criticized Spock's theory on inter-dimensionality and telekinesis. Specifically, that for a being to achieve the ability to shift between dimensions, it must first master telekinesis. The boy had stopped just short of calling Spock completely illogical. Then the slip was highlighted when their teacher warned him of his control and dismissed their topic as supposition.

When Spock reached home, he'd found that, in an amazing show of efficiency for a people given to logic and not gossip, his father had learned of the slip and the supposition. The resulting lecture on control—"Remember, Spock, due to your heritage your control must not be even average. It must be perfect."—Spock counted to be the 4117 lecture of its kind.

Now, the esteemed ambassador had declared (or rather decreed) that Spock should (meaning would) accompany him on his diplomatic mission to Iridean. An even harsher world than Vulcan, Iridean was a small planet of Vulcanoids that circled a blue star near the neutral zone. Contact had been made with the young warp culture by a Captain April a year earlier, and diplomatic talks with Starfleet had intensified of late. It was time for Federation ambassadors to step in and take control.

It was a rather routine diplomatic mission, really, with a race not so different than a few others in the Federation. The Irideani were short-tempered, high-strung, and deeply religious. Their rough desert and jungle surroundings had made them tough and fearless. Most were excited at the thought of a Federation of diverse aliens and had pushed for an official meeting with Federation diplomats, although apparently there were a few dissenters.

The detailed religion of the planet and the 128,761 violations one could commit were the deciding factor on which ambassadorial team was sent to take over the talks.

Spock swallowed another sigh. He supposed the race's aggression and violence, which the religion barely controlled, was to serve as a fresh reminder to Spock of why he should guard against his emotions. Now he had the first twelve tomes of the Kwaykatic Religious Imperative to memorize on the week-long journey to the small, desert world. Not that he couldn't accomplish such a chore—he simply had imagined his school break spent working on his current computer project and playing in the seasonal music competition.

Spock stood and stretched the remaining tension from his shoulders. Time to begin the walk back; otherwise, he would be late for their departure time tomorrow. He picked up his carryall, slung it over his shoulder, and picked his way down the first slope. Yet another lecture would be awaiting him when he arrived home. Sarek had given him endless lectures, asked many questions, and dolled out punishments over Spock's insistence upon going without permission or warning into the mountains. But this piece of himself, this need, Spock wasn't willing to reveal regardless of the consequences. Everyone had some bit—a hobby, a habit, a mediation ritual—that they kept to themselves. Spock didn't see why he should be any different.

He resolved to work through the rest of his irritation with his father during the walk. No use in getting two more lectures.

Why could he and his father never seem to communicate well? Could they never come to an understanding?

III.

"Welcome to the U.S.S _Sakura_," said the short and powerfully built woman standing by the transporter console. "I'm Captain Mary O'Malley."

Spock followed his mother off of the transporter pad and wondered if his father, who had already transported up an hour earlier, was already in a meeting. He could feel the ship accelerating through his boots, but he kept his attention on the woman before him. Her hair was a silver braid, and her eyes blue like his mother's. A scar split her bottom lip, and Spock wondered why it hadn't been properly fixed at the time of the injury.

"Thank you, Captain," Amanda replied with her usual graciousness as the two women shook hands. Spock found the action odd but reminded himself that since they were both human, he should not be surprised.

"Your husband is in the briefing room with my ship sociologist, who is going to share her notes. However, I wished to personally welcome you and your son to the ship. This there anything we may do for you to assure your comfort, Mrs. Sarek?"

"Call me Amanda, please." Spock's mother smiled her charming smile. "And no, I'm sure we'll be quite comfortable. Thank you for your hospitality."

Spock heard a sudden change in the sound of the engines and felt a slight jar as the ship jumped to warp. High warp, by the sound of it. He wondered about the urgency.

"My pleasure." Captain O'Malley gestured to the young man behind her. "Ensign Riggs will show you to your quarters. If you'll excuse me . . ."

Spock followed his mother at the respectful distance as they were led to their quarters. Her burnt-orange _calasa_, with its flowing sleeves, snug waist, and full skirt, accentuated both his mother's thinness and her grace. More grace even, he'd often noted, than most Vulcan women. Her hair, now shot through with silver, was pulled up off her neck into an elegant twist, and she looked quite noble. Adding to her beauty was her intelligence and eloquence, and Spock wondered how anyone could say she wasn't an equal match for his father. Even if she were _human_.

But then again, no matter how he excelled in school, Spock always found that his peers and teachers took an extra moment to respond to his answers. An extra moment to ensure his answers were logical.

IV.

"Church versus State. That is what we've discovered is the key issue."

Beside him, Sarek's aide quietly added to the mission notes as he listened to the _Sakura_'s chief sociologist's observations. The conference room contained a small grey table surrounded by soft chairs currently occupied by him and his team as well as the senior staff of the ship. The grey floor and walls gave the room an aesthetically unpleasing look which Sarek wondered about given the ship designers' eye toward color, space, and psychology.

"We were able to finally determine that they have a uni-camel, two-party planetary senate that advises the planetary president," the young female sociologist continued. "The two parties are the Qui (the liberals) and the Senee (the conservatives). Only the priestesses and military personnel are allowed to run for office."

Sarek listened with mild interest and noted that the young officer did not consult her notes, but rather looked him directly in the eyes. Most unusual for a human.

"The tension is between the goals of the church, who wish to grant the people more freedom and rights, and the military, who are nearly reactionary in their attempts to keep the people under oppressive control. The issue quickly gets caught up in the Kwaykatic Religious Imperative, or rather the KRI, whose rules are constantly being challenged, bent, revised, upheld, and ignored. The church wants to enforce a 'pure' reading of the Scriptures in order to free the people. The military reportedly picks and chooses the Scripture it wants enforced so that it can use the KRI to control the people."

Sarek nodded. "I have seen similar situations."

"The two people we've found the most helpful are the Amolla, or High Priestess, and the Kana, or High Healer. Their names are Dania and Praxia, respectively. The Amolla is Head Orator of the Liberals, and the Kana is a senator considered to have a superior understanding of the Scriptures. On the conservative side, the Head Orator, General Cural, is beginning to lean anti-Federation."

"So my original briefing indicated." Sarek leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "My briefing also indicated that General Cural might have aspirations to be dictator. Have you learned any more about this possibility?"

Captain O'Malley entered the conversation. "We were able to learn that the general has been giving public speeches intended, apparently, to cause longing for the previous government, which two hundreds years ago was a democratic monarchy that allowed slavery of the _quie_, one race of the Irideani. Also, he has paid off two conservative senators to be loyal to him. Our most recent information suggests he may be amassing troops; if so, we've got one sticky situation."

Sarek was inclined to somewhat agree with her assessment, but he knew logic and patience should bear out the problems. "Very well. Is there anything further?"

The captain glanced at her officers, who indicated they had nothing to add. "No, Ambassador."

"Then I shall retire to my quarters and rest." He stood, as did everyone else, and exited, his aides trailing him. Sarek reflected that he must, indeed, connect with the Amolla and the Kana; however, he must also attempt to forge a connection with General Cural.

V.

Noon came angrily to the planet of Iridean—angry and hot, with stifling humidity. Market Square of the planetary capital, Rissen, surged with sweaty life nevertheless.

Cural watched his servants set up the speaker system upon the community platform. He had given many speeches to the Senate; he had wooed the elite business owners and corporate heads who leisurely gathered to spend their money at the Grand Square. He even had a coalition of military supports. Now it was time to address the common worker: the men and women who farmed, worked for factories, and performed other menial tasks unfitting for a man of Cural's heritage.

Waves of heat rippled up from the ancient stone streets, and Cural smelled the stench of curdled milk from cold summer deserts. Screaming kids, rumbling voices, general half-chaos. Filthy, common _ret_ and _quie_. He felt dirty just watching them teeming about him, but he had to sway them as well.

Perhaps the task would not be so disgusting, except for the squalid _quie_ and their spotted foreheads. Unlike the smooth-complexioned beauty of Irdeani race, the _quie_ had that series of bright green, fat spots that ran straight up from the bridge of their noses to their hairline. Not to mention those creepy blue eyes. But time was running out, and Cural needed their support. He had been secretly amassing troops for months, ready to overthrow the current government by force if necessary, but the change would occur much more smoothly if he had the public's support.

"It is ready, Sir." The common _ret _that was his personal aide bowed to him. Cural didn't acknowledge him with a reply, merely climbed the stairs and thumped the podium in the traditional declaration for attention.

"My fellow Irideani," Cural began infusing his voice with energy and charm he didn't entirely feel, "I, General Cural, must speak to you about the situation now facing our planet: the threat of takeover by the Federation."

The crowd, unused to being addressed by such a celebrity, fell mostly quiet and began to gather around the platform. They gazed upon the handsome, muscular man of superior athletic build. His lavender hair and matching eyes, along with the slight tilt to his pointed ears, bespoke his noble _letii_ heritage.

"The Federation would come and ask us to give up who we are. To make us give up our independence, to become part of their collective and follow their laws. They would make us over in their own image and demand the service of our young men and women in their Starfleet."

The crowd stirred with unease, and Cural smiled, knowing such sentiments had already been seeded in the population. "They would come and turn us into their slaves, and not in the time-honored tradition of our past. Not with the honor with which the _quie_ served our ancestors." Blind acceptance there. Despite all the talk of racial equality, Cural knew that the _quie _still understood their place. "No, the Federation would come and bend us to their powerful will with their great ships and weapons." More stirs of unease from the crowd. Cural had to fight off a second smile. Winning the approval of the unintelligent masses would be easier than he'd hoped.

VI.

Spock walked the proper three paces behind and two to the side of Sarek as he and his family entered the Grand Senate Banquet Hall, which was perhaps the most magnificent building in the capitol city of Rissen. The Irideani, it seemed, believed in architecture and decoration as high arts. The vast hall was divided into three tiers with the massive oval banquet table on the middle tier. The far end of the hall was built high with sparkling stones over which a gentle waterfall ran. A series of oval lilac-colored windows graced the length of the hall, and diamond and gold chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling, which was covered with bright religious painting that—oddly to Spock—contained many well-endowed nudes. Intricate carvings decorated the walls, and the floor was a dark blue-grey polished stone that glittered under the lights.

The room was crowded with a Vulcanoid people. The up-slanted eyebrows and pointed ears were usual enough, but the lavender, auburn, and dark purple hair were not. Eye colors seemed to be lavender, indigo, and tawny gold. Complexions also contained more of a faint purple tint rather that the familiar green one, although a few of the servers had green spots on their foreheads. Spock found himself fascinated.

Amolla Dania, the senator who stepped up to greet them, was an elder lady with silver-streaked auburn hair and indigo eyes. Before introductions were complete, the Amolla stopped, her horrified gaze shifting from Amanda and Sarek to fix on Spock. She gasped in disgust. "Then you _are_ a kiwtzkadi!" She whirled on Sarek. "I had heard a rumor, but I had dismissed it as untrue. You dare to insult us—contaminate us—by bringing with you a kiwtzkadi!"

The tiny translator affixed to Spock's robe squealed feedback as it tried to process the word. It came back as mutt/hybrid/beast/accursed/blood-drinker. Spock ruthlessly suppressed his shock and looked to his father, who raised an eyebrow.

Sarek held his hands out in a calming gesture. "I am sorry. I do not understand your reference." His voice was level, calm. "But I assure you, we mean no insult to anyone."

Spock forced himself not to frown. Had the Starfleet sociologists failed to observe some crucial aspect of the culture that would now ruin the negotiations—a crucial aspect that involved himself?

The Amolla pointed a bony finger at Spock. "_That_. It is a kiwtzkadi. You were given a translation of our sacred tomes to read. You should know its kind is not permitted to be born on this planet. Why would you bring one to visit us?"

A calm, young woman about twice Spock's age stepped up beside the Amolla. She appeared regal with her intricately braided, deep purple hair and indigo priestess's robes. "You should use the modern term _kudwitz_." She spoke Federation Standard with a soft, accented, but firm voice. "They would not recognize the word _kiwtzkadi_. Besides, a translation of tomes 13 and 14 has not yet been given to them. They have not yet learned of the Sularane and the prohibition against crossbreeding."

Even in the extreme heat, Spock felt chilled. The word _Sularane_ didn't translate. But the word _kudwitz_ translated as "mutt". As if it weren't already obvious where this discussion was headed.

The young woman placed her hand on the Amolla's arm when she started to speak again, then faced Sarek. "Ambassador, I am the Kana, Praxia." Her lavender eyes seemed to plead for patience. "I understand, and I hope everyone will see, that you did not know about the imperative against _kiwtkadi_. Besides, I can see his soul." Her voice grew soft. "And it is a beautiful soul." The Kana watched Spock closely. He knew his face was set like stone.

"Beautiful?" spat the Amolla. "Its soul would have to be split. Cracked."

The Kana gave her senior a steely look, and strangely the woman grew quiet. "You must trust my Sight." She turned to the crowd and began to make eye contact with several people. "He is not our _kiwtkadi_. Hybrid. He is not part of our people, therefore he bares no relation to our prophecy. The Kitwzkadic Law is to protect us from the prophecy. From The Sularane. Since this child cannot be associated with the prophecy, there is no reason to hate or fear him. These people will honor our laws—when they know them—because they respect us and our people. But our laws are not binding to them in any moral sense. If they accept us, we must also accept them."

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The Kana faced the Amolla.

The Amolla hesitated. "He may remain at the banquet, but from now on, he must remain in their rooms. And so shall Sarek's wife. We must not be reminded of what we cannot abide." The Amolla turned and with chin high, walked away.

The Kana seemed apologetic. "It doesn't seem like much, but she was actually being gracious. Come, Ambassador Sarek, Lady Amanda, and young Spock. There is much you need to know about the Sularane."

VII.

Spock followed the Kana and his parents as they strolled along a _bitzi_-stone path outside the Great Senate Banquet Hall. The _bitzi_ stones sparkled in the waning sunlight, and the effect was like glitter in Terran red-clay. With the onset of the evening, the temperature had eased off to 100 degrees, and felt more like 95 with the breeze. The wind lifted Spock's short hair and feathered it; the breeze felt like gentle waves lapping over his skin. The suns brought out indigo highlights in the Kana's braided hair and caught a silvery glinting in the fabric of her purple robes.

"If you are going to spend any amount of time on Iridean," the Kana was saying, "you must understand the prophecy concerning the Sularane."

"Then, please, explain." Sarek held out two of his fingers to Amanda, who matched them with her own. They walked closely together.

Kana Praxia motioned for them to follow her into a garden and spoke as they walked. "Six thousand of our years ago, a great prophetess named Sani revealed to us a future event: a child of mixed blood will be born—a girl. She will set into action a string of events leading to the fall of both the Church and the State—or, rather, at the time, the tribal union. She will implement a new world order in which all will be genuinely equal and in which no tyrants will rein. She will be called the Sularane—Savior of The People." The Kana paused as they reached the fountain at the garden's center and gave Sarek a bitter smile. "Sani was executed by the tribal union for predicting something so terrifying. The Church implemented a series of laws making it a sin to marry or copulate outside of one's race or tribe. Later this became race or nation. The punishment for siring or baring a child of mixed heritage is death. In addition, the infant, regardless of whether it is female or male, is put to death as well."

Spock had joined his parents and Praxia at the fountain and had to hide his reaction of distaste. To his shame, he found that he suddenly felt vulnerable. Unprotected and in danger.

Amanda glanced down, and Sarek's mouth bent ever-so-slightly as he murmured, "I see."

"Over the centuries, the prophecy has been twisted by both the Church and State into something terrifying and world-ending, and not even all priestesses truly understand the prophecy and what it says. As a result, few racial hybrids are born, and therefore, few infants are killed." A faint blush had colored Praxia's cheeks, and she kept her gaze strictly ahead. "In the last year, only one such execution has taken place. Intermarriage is illegal, and the matter is surrounded by so much stigma that few enter into those kinds of relationships. The few babies conceived in such a way are presumably aborted. After all, in modern times there are only three major races inhabiting our world: the lavender-skinned _letii_, who are divided into nobles and _ret_, or commoners; and the _quie_, who are sometimes green-skinned like yourself and who generally have a small cluster of freckles or spots on their faces." The Kana reached out and ran a hand under the water pouring from the fountain. "Of course, not all of us see the Sularane as a bad thing. Some of us would welcome a new world order of equality."

Sarek stepped up beside her. "Such as yourself?"

The Kana smiled. "Come. I would ever admit to such a blasphemous belief."

Sarek raised an eyebrow. "So this stigma—prejudice—has extended to my son? And myself and my wife?"

The Kana nodded. "Yes. You will have to defend your marriage to various offended Irideani, no doubt. But your son will bear the worst of it. The mixing of two species in an individual . . ." Her tone grew sarcastic. "Truly terrifying."

Spock stepped back behind his parents and tried, for a reason he did not care to analyze, to be invisible. Suddenly his lofty peers and teachers didn't seem so intimidating, and he wished he were safely back in Vulcan's wilderness, sitting upon his favorite ridge. A small pain awoke in his chest as he thought of his place of solitude, and he wondered, not for the first time, why a hybrid should be such a terrible thing. Why difference should be so sinister.

VIII.

In the darkness of his living area, Cural sipped on a glass of _iswish_, the perfect finish to a well-laid supper. He smiled to himself—a feral grin. Senators, generals, admirals, and common people lined the walls of his scheme's labyrinth now. Who could stop him? Even the Supreme Being might not be able to. He chuckled. All his life he'd dreamed of the old ways, prayed for a return of the empire, imagined himself as ruler. Decades of work—calculated murders, building networks, poisoning minds, buying souls—had brought him to the precipice of victory. If the monarchy had not fallen, he'd be a duke. Now, instead, he'd be emperor.

A lilting series of chirps interrupted the silence. "Enter," Cural commanded.

The doors parted and a figure hesitated just inside the main door. "Come in, Senator Ritiz," the general said with much amusement. "If I meant you harm, I would not do it here and disrupt my home's flow of _keemia_."

The figure advanced, his feet coming to the edge of the moonlight shining upon the floor. Cural did not turn on the lights, but rather left the room and its soft cushions in darkness. Darkness better covered the deeds of planners and makers.

"Why have you called me here, General?" Senator Ritiz asked.

"You know why." Cural took a long drink of _iswish_, savoring the aged flavor. "You know, because you understand what will happen." Cural exhaled slowly, equally savoring the _iswish's_ aftertaste. His mother had once told him he had a gift with words. "These Federation people are a threat to us, to our way of life. Independence and freedom are things to be worshipped, to never be taken for granted. We would be fools to allow this Federation control over us."

Ritiz was silent.

"Do you doubt my interpretation?"

"No, Cural. I just wonder about your motivations. I, like a few others, are well aware of your desire to become President and reinstate the slavery of the _quie_."

Cural smiled, although Ritiz could not see it in the dark. His father had once told him he had a way with persuasion. "I will never deny that the timing is excellent. But you once served with me, Ritiz. You know that I do not give mere lip service to the old ways of honor and nobility. I would rule fairly and promote justice as it was in The Golden Age. Democracy is all well and good, but some people have neither the intelligence nor the education to use it wisely. Our society is deteriorating. We of the ancient honor must step up now before we are too old and set our people's honor straight."

Ritiz grunted. Cural knew that grunt of approval. Yet another senior senator won over to his side.

"What do you plan to do?" Ritiz asked.

"I believe we have one honorable method: the ancient way of dealing with an enemy who tries to wear the face of an ally."

"Ah. The _kudwitz_ child."

"Indeed. He is the key. And my supporters are ready to wrest control of the planetary defense system if the Starfleet vessel attacks. We will force them to leave, one way or another."

* * *

_**A/N: **__Come to think of it, this probably should be a novel and not simply a long short story. Ah, well. I don't have the time right now to crank out the 60,000 extra words needed to make this a novel. Please accept this fanfic in the spirit of fun I intended._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I freely admit that the KRI prophecies, the Sularane, and the psionic abilities were inspired by Star Wars, the Matrix, plus Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so no flogging please._

_I also apologize again for the intricacy of city names, terms, words, etc. Like I said before, I originally meant for this to be a novel-length affair, so I created a whole world and culture to go with it._

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO: CAPTIVE**

I.

Spock glanced around the dark wood furnishings of the Irideani Reformation-period ambassadorial apartments: maroon-padded chairs and settees, heavy maroon and gold curtains, and navy-flowered potted cactuses. The Irideani of the century before apparently preferred dark colors.

With his mother secreted away to a mud spa by the Kana Praxia, Spock was finally able to relax in solitude. The condition of being alone was one often forced upon him—physical aloneness, social aloneness, and even spiritual aloneness. Deep in the place he pushed all pain, he smarted from the rejections. Yet, beyond the simple requirement for meditation, he had come to not only desire an extra amount of alone-time, he had come to _need_ it. He couldn't seem to function properly without it. It was a puzzle to him sometimes, how he could need both solitude and company in such ways.

A new thick tome, black and strangely ominous, waited on an end table for Spock's perusal. He picked it up and gazed at it, wondering that mere words could cause such evil. He settled into an over-stuffed chair and tried to focus on the copy of the fourteenth tome of the KRI. After some speed-reading, his attention stopped on chapter 202, section 51, verse eight: "And the Sularane shall be a gifted child. (9) She shall channel a level of divine power unparalleled. If she wishes a mountain to fall, it shall."

Spock raised an eyebrow, shifted in the chair. A truly amazing amount of telekinesis. He resisted the urge to shift again; restlessness was unseemly. Of course, no one was around to see it, but control was control.

Verse 10: "The Sularane shall, indeed, be able to appear and vanish at will."

Both eyebrows rose at this revelation. Inter-dimensionality? That fit with the theory Spock had been debating with his classmate.

_Scrape_. Spock looked up and listened carefully. The Kana had suggested he lock the doors when he was alone. Protection, she explained, against religious zealots. Spock had complied, but the doors were only wooden.

_Scrape_. Spock's hearing told him the sound was indeed coming from the hall. Glancing toward the doors, Spock saw a doorknob turning. He jumped from the chair, heading for the balcony doors, but the front doors burst open with a chorus of shouts. Five adult males ran into the room. One held a crude phaser-type weapon. The blast knocked Spock's breath from him. The numbness that quickly spread through his limbs was painful, and fighting the coming darkness was useless. Spock saw the room spin about him—a maroon smear—and felt his body hit the floor. Then he felt nothing.

II.

Amanda sat beside Sarek in the _Sakura_'s briefing room and tried to keep her terror under control. She applied the disciplines she'd learned during her residence on Vulcan, but her hands shook and her palms sweated. Her child, her one and only child, had been abducted by lunatics. In her mind's eye, she saw him as he'd been this morning before she left: the young, somber face accented by black bangs and black robes. Those soft brown eyes, ever solemn. Almost grim, and she knew why. More insults, more prejudice. Could this child of hers ever go anywhere without meeting bigotry? She clenched her fist beneath the table and tried to fight off a wave of anger, although she preferred anger to terror.

Kana Praxia sat across from Amanda and her husband. The Kana appeared serene, but Amanda caught an occasional flash of anger or bleakness in her eyes. Amanda wondered at Praxia's reaction and didn't find the sereneness comforting.

Captain O'Malley, her eyes a furious molten sapphire, stood at the head of the table. Her hands gripped her chair back tightly. "If you're ready, we'll play the hostage footage." The lines about her eyes and mouth drew deeper, making her seem every bit of her fifty years.

"We are ready," Sarek said with a calm that didn't fool his bondmate.

The captain hit a button, and a handsome male face appeared on the table's central viewer. "I am General Cural, representing the LEN. We have taken the _kudwitz_ child hostage in our ancient method of dealing with enemies who masquerade as friends. Despite his mixed heritage, we do not wish the child harm. We do, however, demand that the Federation immediately withdraw from Iridean and allow us to continue living as we always have. Despite the welcome some have extended you, not all of us desire your interference. You will withdraw your ambassador and ship immediately and never return. If your ship withdraws, we'll send a small two-person carrier with the child. If you return in range after procuring the child, both our space fleet and our planetary defense system will fire upon you.

"You will comply with all our demands within 48 of your standard hours, or we will execute the _kudwitz_ in the proper ritual fashion."

The image froze, then disappeared. Sarek stared at the blank screen. Amanda could feel him struggling for control of his fear and anger.

"The LEN—_Lison Elipsi Natcoon_," the Kana intoned. "I suppose it would translate as Coalition for Proper State Control. By using the ancient child-hostage method they indicate a dire level of seriousness." Her hand curled into a fist; she punched the table. "Curral and his greed. He wants to be dictator next." She stopped and inhaled slowly. "What will your government do?"

Amanda felt her husband grow cold. "The Federation does not bargain for hostages." Sarek's voice came out completely toneless. "The Captain and I will have to discuss our options."

Amanda felt a twisting pain in her chest, a pain like a thousand concentrated, cold phaser blasts. "What is the 'proper ritual execution'?" Her voice was faint.

The Kana hesitated. "I don't think you really want to know."

"No, please." Amanda steeled herself. "I need to know."

Praxia trained her gaze on the table. "A ceremonial knife is heated so all wounds will cauterize. The victim's arms and legs are cut off one by one to make sure the soul is banished to the lowest level of hell. Then the eyes and tongue are removed to make sure the soul cannot harm, curse, or possess anyone as it departs. Finally, the heart is cut out, and the soul leaves." She lifted her gaze to meet first Amanda's, then Sarek's, almost as though she could absorb their reactions.

Sarek stared at the Kana in barely disguised horror. Amanda moaned and clutched at his arm, although she found her fingers were too cold to hold. "Sarek! We can't just sit here and do nothing."

Captain O'Malley stared at the Kana. "And you do that to _babies_?"

The Kana's gaze fell to the table again. "I haven't, and I wouldn't. Not ever. Others believe it is necessary, that both the soul and the physical body must die."

Silence pervaded the _Sukara's_ briefing room.

"All the priestesses, whether members of the Senate or not, will help you," the Kana assured them. "Our Council of Elders doesn't care that your son is a hybrid. We priestesses will not allow Cural to kill one of your people or to be successful in his plans. We will make sure Spock is returned to you unharmed."

Amanda saw a glow of fury, like Irideani's hot blue primary, in Praxia's face that made her believe her. Yet, at the same time, Amanda sensed that Praxia knew something she wasn't telling.

"Do you . . .?" Amanda began, wanting to ask if Praxia knew where her son was being held.

However, Praxia had stood and bowed. "I must meet with the Council of Elders again immediately; we have contacts world-wide and may be able to offer our assistance.

Sarek and Captain O'Malley thanked the Kana, and Amanda frowned at the woman's back as she left. "Bring my son back safely," she said, aiming the comment at Praxia and knowing Captain O'Malley would assume the words were for Starfleet.

To Amanda, it didn't matter who rescued Spock as long as he returned alive and unharmed.

III.

Spock awoke to find himself bound to a cold stone slab. The men that surrounded him wore military uniforms. His translator was gone, and he couldn't understand them. Large banks of lights hung above their heads, revealing glittering blue stalactites, and Spock realized they were in a cave.

A man with hooded indigo eyes and a feral smile leaned over Spock. "_Laas veneran locan, kudwitz? Op rune calan._" The men laughed.

Spock suppressed the surge of fear that threatened his senses. An emotional reaction would not help; in fact, his early childhood had taught him that emotional reactions were exactly what tormentors wanted. He had to remain calm, logical. After all, his father and Captain O'Malley would be organizing a search by now.

One soldier pulled out a dagger with a saw-tooth blade. He leaned over Spock and pressed the cold blade against his cheek, grinning as the light glinted off the metal. "_Soan man, kudwitz. Vec nock . . ._" The man stroked the blade down Spock's neck and tapped his arm. "_Vec nos . . ._" He rubbed the blade down Spock's torso, snagging his robe as he went, and then tapped his legs. "_Vec nodos_."

Spock couldn't understand the words, but the menace and hate in the man's tone was unmistakable. He knew it was a threat, likely a promise that he would be cut to shreds. Spock ruthlessly bit back his fear, forcing it away with deep breathing techniques. What would be, would be. Panic would achieve nothing.

Another soldier stepped up and restrained Spock's tormentor. "_Onne rent con,_" he snapped, apparently barking an order. He gestured to a third man behind him. "_Dos ren_."

The third soldier pulled out his phaser-type weapon and pointed it at Spock. Despite himself, Spock's whole body tensed waiting for the blast.

Once again, blackness.

IV.

Praxia hunkered in a recess of the second main cave, turned off her light, and listened. Voices echoed as soldiers approached; Praxia held her breath as she shoved her carryall out of sight. She felt grateful that she had changed out of her robes and into a simple jumpsuit; she couldn't afford to alert anyone to her presence, much less be caught. If they even suspected a rescue mission was taking place, they would execute Spock.

And the Council of Elders would likely only get one chance at a rescue before the Federation took action. Praxia had enlisted, with Amolla Dania's permission, eight other priestesses to sweep the caverns running under Radona, the planet's highest mountain. Radona had always been the traditional hostage-holding place. Strange as it would no doubt seem to the formidable Captain O'Malley and the sizable Federation delegation, Praxia knew a small rescue force was best, so she had organized them in groups of two, herself excepted. She preferred to work alone.

A light brightened the bend of the ageless water-worn path as the soldiers approached, and Praxia was horrified to see that it illuminated the corner of her hiding spot. She drew back further as the two men rounded the bend.

" . . . and she told me that she wouldn't date me for all the jewels in Acasa's treasure," the first was saying.

The second man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ven."

Praxia channeled all her telepathy into a single thought: _Look away_.

"So I said, 'You stupid _rika_. I have more money, more honor, _and_ more looks than Jek,'" the first continued, looking everywhere but at Praxia's hiding place. "Why would you prefer him over me?"

The second man shook his head. "Jek? She wants Jek? What's wrong with her?" The two men rounded the next bend and disappeared, still bemoaning the reluctant woman.

Praxia sighed in relief. She waited an extra few minutes and listened for further sounds, then turned back on her light and headed deeper into the caves. She wished she didn't have so far to go to reach the boy.

V.

The loosening of his restraints awakened Spock the second time. He opened his eyes as Praxia placed her hand over his mouth and peered into his face. Spock squinted as the light from a device attached to her shoulder glared into his eyes.

"Quickly. Quietly," she whispered, pulling him to his feet. "We must find my people before the soldiers find us." Spock staggered, his body weak and his mind groggy from the effects of the two blasts so close together.

The Kana took his arm and led him through a confusing series of tunnels. Too many twists, turns, and forks for Spock to memorize in his current state of mind, which he found disquieting. Praxia did not speak or look back. Spock tried to concentrate on easing the shaking of his legs and clearing his mind, but Praxia was touching him. The disconcerting comfort of her warm concern distracted him.

After an hour of silent walking and climbing, the Kana stopped in a small cave and gestured to a low boulder. "Let's stop and rest here."

With hesitance, Spock sat on the rock. He had been weakened by his mistreatment and was having difficulty using his biofeedback to control his body temperature. As a result, he was miserably cold, and the cool bolder made him colder. Praxia pulled a carryall out from behind the bolder and extracted two cloaks and a second light. After setting up the light on the floor, she wrapped the cloak tightly around Spock's shoulders. The material was quite heavy, and Spock buried his numb hands in it.

"Are you injured?" she asked.

"No, just groggy." Spock unconsciously sniffed, belatedly realizing that his nose, like his hands, was numb. He focused his mind and worked to recover his biofeedback.

Praxia stepped forward and in the dim light examined his head, arms, and legs. Spock kept still and quiet, allowing her a healer's rights. Seeming satisfied, she shrugged into her cloak, then sat down beside him.

Silence prevailed for several minutes as Spock regained a sense of warmth, then he spoke. "How did you know how to find me?"

"It was easy to guess that they would bring you to the Radonan Caverns. Not to generalize, but many people still cling to tradition too much. Some people, such as General Cural, even worship tradition. The Caverns are where they've always brought hostages."

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "I see. What shall we do now?"

"After a rest, we'll finish our trip out of the Caverns, and we'll hopefully meet up with my people at the predetermined point. Rissen is about five kilometers from here. We'll have to walk—we didn't dare bring a vehicle; they would've detected it. After we reach the Temple, we'll contact the _Sukara_. The Council of Elders is likely explaining to them now that the priestesses have undertaken the rescue. We had to. Anything else would result in blood shed and possibly instant war."

Spock frowned. "Why did they abduct me? Is it because I am a . . . _kudwitz_?" Even though he and Praxia were not touching, he easily felt a surge of anger from her at the mention of the word.

"No. It's a tradition from our past to kidnap an enemy leader's child. General Cural and his allies wish the Federation delegation to leave."

"Why?"

"Cural wants to be dictator. He wants to return to the old ways—I think he has a golden view of the past, believing it to be better that it was. And he apparently sees no problem with reinstating the slavery of the _quie_ and the nobility not having to share their power with anyone. Since the Federation doesn't condone slavery, he sees our desire for membership as an obstacle to his plans." Praxia sighed. "In addition, he fears that we liberal senators and our liberal President might ask the Federation for help against him. Which they might, although I don't think the Federation would necessarily give it."

Spock nodded and watched Praxia silently for several moments, thinking through everything she had said on the subject during his entire visit. Then he was struck by a thought. "The other day you said something most fascinating about my soul. It would imply that you can telepathically 'see' it."

Praxia smiled. "Yes, I suppose you can say that. Your soul shows me that you are a hybrid—in a sense. There are certain 'crooks' and 'fissures' as well as a certain potential that implies one torn between two cultures. But it's beautiful."

Spock found his gaze had shifted three centimeters above Praxia's right shoulder. "Ah . . .. I give you thanks."

From the corner of his gaze, Spock could see Praxia gazing at him with intensity. An intensity almost like the beginning of a mind meld. "I sense that my world is not the only one to take issue with your hybridity."

Spock remained silent.

"Since your father is an ambassador, does it not make sense that he would try to create bridges between worlds? Even bridges made through marriage and children?"

"Precisely the difficulty." Spock found he could not shift his gaze away from the wall. The sense came again: a telepathic flow between them. He watched the flow carefully in case she meant to mentally infringe upon him. "Not a bridge. I have chosen the Vulcan way, although not everyone is sure of my commitment, I suppose you could say." He nearly cringed at his open admission. Why did he confess such a thing to this stranger? Was it the telepathic flow?

Praxia raised her slanted eyebrow in the mannerism their species shared. "But you are not Vulcan. Or human. You're both. And neither."

Spock gave her an expression bordering on pained.

"Is your individuality and uniqueness not cherished?" Her brow furrowed. "Surely it is! If not, that would be most illogical, if you'll forgive my use of the word. You are who your are, and your dual heritage is part of that."

Spock snorted—an emotional outburst he instantly regretted. The telepathetic flow between them surged, a kind of recognition, empathy without pity. It unsettled him, brought the pain too close to the surface. He stood, stalking several steps away, and his cloak slid halfway off his shoulders at the movement. _But what if who I am—what I am—is not good enough?_ he wanted to say.

"What, is who you are not good enough?" she asked, as though she'd read his mind. Spock had not felt any touch on his mind, however.

"I barely know you," she continued, "and I can already see you are intelligent and talented."

Spock's gaze fell to the floor. "That is not so unusual on Vulcan."

"Then you mean to say that who you are is not good enough?" She stood and walked up to him. "I cannot accept that. You will mature and grow; you'll learn new lessons and change. But the core of who you are will remain, and there's nothing wrong with it." She pulled the cloak back upon his shoulders.

Spock wished he could believe her, but in his mind he saw only an endless procession of lectures from this father and teachers and teasing and insults from his peers.

Praxia smiled. "I hope one day you'll remember what I've said and accept it."

Spock gazed at her, struck by an odd sense that she, unlike everyone else, really did understand. Not entirely, maybe, but more than most. But how did she understand, unless she, too, were a hybrid?

"I wish I could meet you a few decades from now and see what kind of man you've become." She smiled a maternal smile much like his mother gave him.

Running footsteps faintly reached Spock's ears—an echo rushing to meet them. Praxia glanced around, but Spock already saw that there was no place to hide.

She grabbed his wrist. "Run!"

He followed her into a low branch of the cave; shouts erupted behind them. They scrambled over bumps and ridges in the dimness of Praxia's light, but the soldiers were gaining on them.

"_Lo ken_!" a man shouted. "_Lo ken un lacard_!"

Praxia halted and grabbed Spock by both arms. She whirled them around, shielding Spock with her body. Spock could both hear and feel phaser blasts thudding against her back, but she was neither killed nor knocked unconscious. She pushed him forward, and they both cleared the next bend into another cavern. They sprinted toward the far end, but phaser shots followed them.

Praxia stopped in the middle of the craven and turned to hold up her hand. Spock halted, confused, and watched as phaser beams seemed to bounce off of the air before her. She drew back her arm and made an outward-swishing movement before her. The soldiers flew off their feet and landed, unconscious, on the floor.

Suspicion hit Spock with the force of an antimatter explosion. Telekinesis, and apparently a great deal of it. Plus that personal empathy he'd sensed. The Sularane, then. She was the hybrid child of the prophecy.

She whirled back around. "Keep running."

He did, but with a certain odd comfort.

VI.

Cural reclined in the well-padded chair in his senate office and took a draw from his _lalene_ cigar. He was being bold, he knew, to come to his office when everyone knew he was holding the _kudwitz_ captive. President Syralla had been to visit him. She'd exuded an aggression that suggested he'd underestimated her, but no matter. Most of the troops were on his side, and Senator Ritiz now led the political faction who supported him. He was in no danger. And if he'd judged the Federation correctly—and he was confident he had—they wouldn't attack. This was going to be simple.

"Just a few more days, and the Golden Age will return," Cural murmured to himself, smiling at the thought of a return of the traditional ways. He could almost see the finely-dressed nobles entering the royal court and lively balls filled with beautiful women and handsome young soldiers dancing through the night. He closed his eyes and imagined the return of the Jungle Hunt rite of passage for all ten-year-old children and sprawling mansions staffed by servants who didn't talk back or complain about their orders.

The door chime buzzed, and the Captain of the Guard entered without permission. Cural glowered at him, irritated by the interruption of his reverie, but the captain didn't seem to notice.

"General, forgive me, but I bring news. Your troop reports that the _kudwitz_ escaped. They spotted several infiltrators and pursued them all, but to no avail. The team who came closest to recapturing the _kudwitz_ was stunned senseless and couldn't identify the rescuer."

_They'll be a lot more than stunned when I'm finished with them,_ Cural thought. "Well? Have they continued pursuit?"

"They tried, sir, but lost their trail." The Captain of the Guard cowered near the door, apparently afraid of the general's reaction.

The resulting string of obscenities could be heard well down the hall.

VII.

"If I may ask, are you the Sularane?"

Spock had whispered the question to Praxia, not wanting anyone to overhear. He and Praxia, with a flank of priestesses in front and behind them, labored up the last steep slope at the edge of the capitol city. They had all traveled in silence, Praxia looking grim. Spock had discovered he sported a few bruises, and Praxia's dark purple hair was escaping her knotted braid. However, neither the priestesses nor Spock had been seriously hurt during their flight from the caverns.

Praxia flinched at Spock's question and didn't reply.

"I will not tell anyone, including my parents, unless you permit otherwise," Spock assured her.

Praxia finally gave him a small smile. "I know. And you mustn't. Not only because I'm a hybrid, but because I don't believe I'm the Sularane." She sighed. "You are the only one who has figured out my hybridity, so otherwise, no one knows. My tiny village was destroyed in a massive earthquake when I was seven. There were few survivors, and none knew that my mother had taken a _quie_ as a lover. They didn't know because my parents were quite careful and because I took after my mother physically. Without the green spots, I was safe."

Spock nodded.

"But I knew who my father was, and I knew about the penalty. When help arrived to assist the survivors of the earthquake, I told them I didn't know who my father was. Since I was orphaned, I was taken to the Temple, where I still live. As all healers are, I was trained to use my telepathy. In the privacy of my room, I applied the same principles to my telekinsis, with some variations. Fortunately, I only had a few accidents outside of my room, and none so great as to arouse suspicion."

Spock was silent for a moment. "Has it been difficult?"

"Very." The pain in her voice was unmistakable. "Although my nature has remained concealed, I've been surrounded with bigots, some of whom have called me friend, and yet I knew they would kill me in an instant if they knew the truth. I've not met many people who wouldn't be completely disgusted by my existence and immediately turn me in to be executed."

"I would not," Spock said gently, although he knew what she meant.

She smiled at him again, and to Spock, the expression didn't look quite as odd on a vulcanoid face as he would have thought. "Why do you believe so easily in our prophecy?" she asked.

"Your people believe in it; that is enough for me to respect it. And not all myths are fiction. Some are based on real events; others are entirely true. Who am I to say that your prophecy is or is not real? You have formed religious beliefs to mediate your part in and relationship to the All—the universe, the creative force, or whatever you wish to call it. Most every species does in some way or another. If you have discovered your true path—and a specific piece of it, too—then no one else has the right to criticize you."

Praxia's forehead crinkled with confusion, and she paused in their climb. "Then your logic and mastery of emotions are like a religion?"

"No." Spock halted beside her and tried to explain. "They are based on a philosophy that Surak gave us so we could save ourselves from self-destruction. It is a way of life, of thinking and behaving, of—"

Praxia nodded. "I understand. It's your species' salvation. An understanding of the self and control of the self in order to avoid a descent into madness and violence, which most cultures would call evil. It's also the method by which you approach your understanding and relationship with 'the All.'"

Spock cocked an eyebrow at her. "You have a strange way of recasting things into a religious light."

"Differences and similarities have a way of both departing and meeting. Just like time isn't linear, and the concepts of _good_ and _evil_ are not always simple binaries and can become twisted. While there may be a path to a species' salvation, not all choices and actions are simple black and white issues. But people have a way of oversimplifying issues and refusing to see what they don't want to confront."

Spock's eyebrow had steadily ascended his forehead. "Like your not wishing to see that you may be the Sularane?" Praxia gave him a sharp look, but he continued. "Why not? You are a racial hybrid, and I saw myself that you are a powerful telekinetic. Why are you so sure you cannot be the child of the prophecy?"

"Because I'm not special. I'm not good enough. They made me Kana because I'm such a good healer, but there have been many people much more spiritually intune and morally upright than I. Sometimes when I pray, I don't listen. I stay wrapped up in my own worries. And sometimes I lie, or I hate the people who are bigots. Or I get selfish or jealous or . . ."

Spock gave her the very faintest of smiles. "If you are the Sularane, then you are supposed to help your people achieve equality, not be perfect. You try to continally improve yourself. But you are a mortal like the rest of us, not a god."

"That sounds like something I would say to someone." Praxia began ascending the slope again.

"You did give me a talk. Did you think I did not listen, or that I could not do the same for you? At times, young people can see situations clearly despite their youth."

They reached the top of the slope and gazed out over Rissen. Praxia gasped, and Spock suppressed shock. Plumes of smoke capped several of the tallest buildings, and troopers filled every street they could see.

"That bastard," Praxia said with a faint voice. The other priestesses began yelling angrily amongst themselves and broke into a run toward the city.

Spock turned to her. "Apparently it is time for you to fulfill your destiny."

Praxia turned to him in exasperation. "I acknowledge your point, but I'm not the Sularane. I may have telekinsis, but I'm no savior."

"You cannot know that—you have not had the chance to prove it either way. And what if you are, but you do not act? Then, perhaps, the general takes over your world and re-imposes dictatorship and slavery."

"And if I am not and I fail, I will be brutally executed."

Spock looked at her steadily. She stared back.

"Fine. It's worth one life." She turned away. "But there's still no hard evidence that I'm the Sularane, that I'm powerful enough to topple mountains and teleport."

Spock thought for a moment, and an idea occurred to him. "Maybe you do not have to be that powerful."

He had a plan.

* * *

_A/N: Don't bring out the Mary Sue baseball bat. I've already explained my Matrix/Star Wars/Buffy inspiration for the story and its prophecy. All I wanted was a prophecy that centered on a powerful woman for a change instead of Neo or Anakin Skywalker or some other male. There is no romance or authorial insertion here._

_Thank you to Karen and isadax for the reviews and to Gun Mage for the fav!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Again, blatantly admitting the influence of Star Wars, the Matrix, and Buffy on this story. Expect it. I'm pro-woman and fascinated by telekinesis._

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE: SAVIORS**

I.

General Cural smiled as he looked over the capitol city from his office. He'd had to use a little firepower to convince the President he meant business. Then he'd ordered her arrested and the citizens of Rissen to be gathered in the Grand Square to hear his upcoming speech—the speech in which he'd convince the people that the current President was incompetent, as the presence of the Federation proved, and that he, noble General Cural, must assume control immediately or all was lost. With the capitol conquered, the rest of the planet would be easy.

"I will restore the Golden Age today," he murmured to himself, wishing that history could record every moment of this glorious day.

Except one: the loss of the _kudwitz._ The child had obviously been rescued, but the Starfleet vessel equally obviously didn't know it. They'd contacted him not five minutes after the mutt had been reported missing and asked to speak with him on the issue.

"There is nothing of which to speak," he had told them. "If you withdraw, you'll get the child back. If you do not, the child will die."

Cural had cut off communication and ordered his soldiers to redouble their efforts. He even put Lt. Commander Natirin on it, and she was his top tracker.

Cural relaxed, dismissing the irritating topic of the _kudwitz._ Natirin would recapture him, and in the meantime, Cural would kill democracy with a sweet talk and a charming smile, promising the Irideani he was only protecting them and their way of life. And, to a certain extent, it was truth. He was protecting them from baseness and chaos by returning them to the Golden Age.

The door buzzer announced the arrival of the captain of the guard, and Cural admitted him.

"Sir?" The captain paused at the door. "I have brought the camera woman you asked for. The system is hooked up, and the people are gathered in the Grand Square."

Cural turned and smiled at the nervous, sweaty captain. "Excellent. Show her in."

The captain ushered in a tiny _quie_ woman who looked even more nervous than the captain. The complex camera/broadcaster she held must have weighed nearly as much as she, but she welded it expertly.

"Ready yourself, woman," Cural ordered. "I must address my people." He'd arranged for the speech to be broadcast primarily to the Grand Square but also on all Live Cast Feeds on the planet. Everyone on the planet near a computer or view screen would hear the first speech of their new "President" and the last speech of the era of democracy.

II.

Praxia and Spock pushed their way to the front of the crowd that clogged Rissen's Grand Square. Troopers lined the sidewalks, and phaser tanks hovered the front and back of the Square.

"Something that would generate an electro-magnetic pulse," Praxia repeated, still processing Spock's idea.

"Yes," Spock said. "An EMP. If you have such a device, it would render all the phasers and phaser tanks useless. So unless your soldiers or tanks still carry projectile weapons . . ."

"No, all military weaponry was upgraded to phaser technology twenty-five years ago. Only private citizens would still own guns, and usually only the _ret_ and _quie_, who are too poor to buy personal phasers." Praxia halted and stared at the tanks around them.

"What are you planning to do?" Spock asked.

Praxia pointed to the man standing on top of a tank. "That's General Weslien. He's been at Cural's side for a decade. I'm counting on his knowing something, and I'm going to read his mind."

"Read it?" Spock's tone betrayed a tint of horror. "Without his permission? That would be mental rape."

Praxia glanced at him, taken aback. "It is not something I do often; in fact, I was specifically trained to block out others' thoughts and feelings so I would not be overwhelmed. But in this case, do I even have another choice if I mean to save my people in time?"

Spock's brow furrowed, but he remained silent.

Praxia understood his discomfort, but she had no time for proprieties. She closed her eyes and concentrated on Weslien. He was a distracted man, and it helped her to enter the edges of his mind unnoticed. She skimmed the surface of his mind, learning Cural's plan and location. Then she quickly dipped deeper, scanning for some kind of weapon that could help her. She had to finish soon; the deeper and the longer she went, the more he would sense something.

When she opened, her eyes, Spock blinked as though startled; apparently he had been watching her intently or, perhaps, even tensely. "I've got it," she told him, and began walking to the west of the Square. "We've got to get to the Rewey Building. Cural's in his office. He has standing orders to use deadly force if necessary to instate himself as dictator. He's already arrested the President."

"What else did you learn?" Spock asked.

"There's an old weapon we might be able to use, if we can get to it. It generates an electro-magnetic pulse. Now, if I can only figure out how to make this plan all work together!"

"And preferably without bloodshed," Spock said.

"I agree. We must—" Praxia stopped suddenly—so suddenly that Spock bumped into her back. "There is it."

"What?"

Praxia had locked gazes with a beautiful young _quie_ woman. A moment later, she shifted her stare to a red-headed _quie_ man. Then another man. A woman. A teenage boy. She began walking again, quickly exchanging glances with _quie_ after _quie_.

"Praxia?" Spock whispered.

"They're here to protect their interests," she whispered. "They've gathered up their guns and rifles. They're going to fight to stop this. They're just waiting for some kind of opening. That's what I'm going to provide."

"With the EMP I suggested," Spock surmised.

"Yes. And I have to take care of Cural. He's the focal point to all of this. The coup's not going to work without him, even if he has the backing of senators like Ritiz. Amolla Dania and the Counsel of Elders are putting up great resistance."

"Still, that is too much to handle in too little time," Spock said. "You are going to need help."

Praxia turned to look at him, and although Spock's mental shields kept her telepathy at bay, she needed no mind-reading powers to know his thoughts. "I can't let you go after the EMP. I can't let you endanger yourself, Spock. You don't live here; it's not your fight. You have a life to live elsewhere."

"And if your General Cural recaptures me and kills me I will not be able to live it."

"Trying to help me will not improve your chances."

"Let me help." The young Vulcan stood his ground. "Perhaps I _can_ reach this EMP weapon since it is not something they plan on using."

"It'll still be heavily guarded. Besides—"

The view screen on the tallest building in the Grand Square flickered to life and drew everyone's attention. General Cural's enormous image stared down at the crowd of thousands. "Good people of Rissen, I address you to bring to you important news that will greatly improve all our lives."

Praxia returned her gaze to Spock. "All right. You can help. Using General Weslien's knowledge, I'll try to get you to the right building to reach the EMP. Then I'll go after Cural."

III.

The building in question was not heavily guarded after all. No guards stood at door, and no security devices were evident. The squat building was run-down looking; the windows were blacked-out. Junk parts and trash cluttered the surrounding area.

"I'm not surprised," Praxia whispered. "The EMP would be a last-scenario weapon. Too inconvenient. According to the general's memories, this place holds all the outdated military technology and projects-gone-wrong. But they'll still defend it. After all, even failed projects can be dangerous."

"I understand." Spock prepared himself for the violence. "I have a Vulcan technique I can use called a 'nerve pinch' that will render opponents unconscious."

Praxia smiled. "I have the martial arts training required of all priestesses and all nobility. More violent than your nerve pinch, I imagine, but not lethal if I don't wish it to be."

"Please do not wish it," Spock murmured, and Praxia nodded.

They approached the door and entered as though they were expected. The building seemed to have minimal staff, no doubt due in part to the coup. A young guard stepped forward from his security stall to meet them.

"May I see your pass?" he asked, his brow furrowed with suspicion.

"Certainly." Praxia whirled and delivered a roundhouse kick to his temple, knocking him out instantly. She immediately bent down and searched his pockets for his access card, then handed it to Spock. "You'll need this."

Spock followed Praxia to the building's turbolifts, all the while disquieted by the violence. When the doors opened to the second floor, Spock stepped out first and laid his hand on the sentry's shoulder.

The soldier turned toward him. "Who are—"

Spock pinched the vulnerable nerve at the base of his neck, and the sentry collapsed without a sound.

"Nicely done," Praxia whispered, then ran down the hallway to the last door.

Knowing that Praxia was following the mental map she'd stolen from the general's mind, Spock followed close behind her.

"This is it," she said, motioning for him to use the access card.

Spock nodded and swiped the card through the card reader on the door lock. The doors whished open, revealing a long hallway beyond.

"I must leave you now," Praxia said. "I must stop General Cural. If you'll allow me to briefly touch your mind, I'll pass on the necessary knowledge for you to complete this task."

Spock paused, then nodded. There was no other choice; time was of the essence.

Praxia brushed her fingers against his temple in a move reminiscent to a mind meld, but then with amazing speed, she stepped into the first layer of his conscious and delivered dozens of images. In what felt like mere seconds, she pulled away.

"Does it make sense?" she asked.

Spock reviewed the information. "Yes. I can complete the task. Please go ahead; your people need you."

Praxia bowed. "Thank you, Spock. You will save us today." Without further ado, she raced back toward the tubrolifts, leaving Spock to execute his half of the plan.

Spock turned to face the empty hallway and found, to his disgust, that his heart rate had accelerated and a slight dampness had even formed on his palms. Breaking into a military facility on an alien world was the last action Spock had ever imagined himself committing, and apparently the stakes were straining his emotional control.

The corridor was a uniform dark grey and was dimly lit with flickering florescent lighting recessed into the ceiling. Mustiness mixed with dust to tempt Spock to sneeze, but sound could be suicidal. Spock mustered a lifetime's of training in Vulcan martial and defensive arts to proceed silently past a series of doors. The silence, however, amplified the buzz of the lights—a broken buzz that jumped and spat as the lights flickered. To Spock, the low sound seemed deafening.

Finally, he neared the last door of the hallway, the one the mind meld had shown him he needed. He walked forward quickly, glancing continually over his shoulder. He expected to hear a shout at any moment—a shout he would be unable to understand since he no longer had his translator, but the motivation behind the shout would be clear enough. If he were caught and survived, he could only imagine what his father would have to say. Death was more likely, however; his father needed to be the least of his concerns.

Spock reached the target door and considered it. The lock was enabled with a card reader, but he doubted the security guard's card would access this particular door. Perhaps only military scientists were allowed to enter this room. And even if the card did open the door, there had to be a hidden security system of some kind. Even non-warp cultures could have superior surveillance, much less warp ones. Spock gathered his courage and reached toward the lock.

"_Dok wien_." A booming bass voice barked the command from behind Spock, and he halted. He turned his head slightly and saw the phaser-type rifle pointed at his head.

IV.

Apparently assured of his victory, Cural allowed Praxia to see him. The guards ushered her inside the building with a manner that suggested they merely humored her. As she rode the turbolift up to Cural's floor, Praxia retreated into prayer. She'd never been closer to death; she'd never done anything so ridden with meaning.

_My Lord, Supreme Being over of All, I am unsure what to ask of You. I don't know whether to believe am I the Sularane or not. Perhaps it doesn't matter. I merely pray that I will be able to stop Cural and keep more violence from occurring. _A pause of dignity that quickly shredded._ Oh, please God, help me!_

But Praxia put her fear and uncertainty behind her as she was ushered into Cural's office. She'd been told to remain quiet, but she had no intention of doing so. "What are you doing?" she immediately demanded.

Cural signaled for the _quie_ woman to shut down her camera before facing Praxia. She noted that the woman pretended to, but didn't actually, turn off her camera. Praxia didn't have to be psychic to know this woman was part of a resistance movement that the Council of Elders hadn't even known existed. Perhaps it was time for the Temple to connect more with the people of whom they believed themselves to be the champions.

"Ah, my dear Praxia." Cural leaned against his desk. "You do know how to cut to the heart of the matter, don't you?" He grinned. "I'm delivering this planet from its twisted delusions of democracy and returning it to the Golden Age."

Praxia knew she didn't have long before Cural would be alerted that the camera was still on. She had to act fast. "You mean you're establishing yourself as dictator so you can levy your will like the Supreme Being Himself."

Cural smiled whimsically. "How vicious of you, my dear. Hardly. I have no aspirations to be a despot."

_Quickly, quickly!_ "But you've made clear your intentions to return the _quie_ into slavery. And returning to the old ways means increased poverty for the _ret_ as well."

"Well, that is tragic, isn't it?" Finally, sarcasm. "Has the Senate not beaten this topic to death? The _quie_—and the _ret_ for that matter—have been assigned the role of servants by our Lord, haven't they? It's time to stop all this insufferable whining about rights and equality and return to the way things should be. That is the Noble Way, the way we've lived since the beginning of time."

_Thank you, God._

The comm unit on the desk buzzed, and Cural punched it. "Yes, what do you want?"

"General . . . you're still on the air."

"What!" Cural glanced up, murder evident on his face. The terrified _quie_ woman dropped her camera. Cural turned his gaze upon Praxia and must have seen a hint of satisfaction there. "Don't be so sure, Kana," he said. Cural smiled at her, and she knew what he was getting ready to do. She jerked up her hand with the thought of telekinetically throwing him away from his desk.

But his finger had already hit the botton on the com unit.

Cural had signaled his troops to begin the final phase of the coup.

V.

Death.

Without any doubt, Spock knew he likely had only three seconds to live, and he was surprised at how calm he felt. Serene. At peace. He wasn't remotely afraid, and for the eternal span of a nanosecond he wondered why. Why was he so unafraid of the one thing that all living things instinctively fear? He had a hard time believing his emotional mastery was good enough to stop the fear. It was a fascinating philosophical problem . . .

And then in the next nanosecond, martial arts training and millenia of animal passions took control. He jerked one arm up in front of his body and to the side, executing an outside block that knocked the weapon out of the guard's hand as he fired. Pain shot through his left shoulder as the shot grazed it, but the pain barely registered. The song of sand, the howl of wild _sehlats_, exploded in his mind and rushed through the bending rails of logic and calculation: stay alive. Succeed. Spock lunged forward, weight on his right leg. He put his body weight behind his right arm for a punch to the solar plexis. He spun around the soldier even as the man's body jerked backwards. Fingers found and closed on a specific nerve.

Bent rails of logic straightened. A breath reined in dangerous shadows of emotion, and Spock watched the man slump to the floor, unconscious. Oddly, no people ran out of the rooms to investigate the shot. Still, there was no time to waste, now. Spock turned and swiped the card through the lock reader, and to his relief, the door opened.

An empty room with flickering monitors and control boards greeted him. He rushed to the central board, flipped up a miniature access hatch, and slammed his hand down on the bright yellow button.

A strange sensation rushed through Spock, lifting the hairs on his arms, and then the world fell silent and dark. A heartbeat later, an explosion shattered the quiet. It took a moment to register, but Spock recognized the sound from history lessons: gunfire.

Yells and more gunshots from the first floor. Impulse punched Spock in the chest, and he didn't even try to resist. It wasn't fear; it was more like inexplicable knowledge. Whatever it was, it demanded action. For the first time since he was seven years old, Spock let emotion completely overtake logic and common sense. With a leap, he jumped through the blacked-out second story window.

VI.

Cural straightened. "Now, my dear Praxia—"

The whine and drone of dozens of electrical devices suddenly died; the lights shut off. Praxia grinned into the semi-darkness of the room. The light from the windows showed the shock on Cural's face.

"Checkmate," Praxia said, borrowing a concept from her contact with Spock's mind.

The _quie_ woman left the camera on the floor and fled the room. Cural charged out from behind the desk. "What the hell did you just do?"

"EMP. Your troops have nothing left at their disposal except hand-to-hand combat against hundreds of angry _quie_ and _reh _with guns."

"Bitch! You and your animals can't stop me." Cural leapt forward, only to have his jaw make violent contact with Praxia's fist.

Cural only took a moment to recover. He lunged forward again, blocking Praxia's second blow as he punched with the other fist. She blocked it and angled a chop at his neck. He parried and knocked her backward with an open-handed jab at her chest, then followed through with a round-house kick. However, Praxia dodged, then spun and landed a side kick to Cural's ribs, throwing him to the floor. He jumped to his feet and, blocking her second kick, caught her foot and threw her back. She backflipped and threw a punch the moment she landed. Cural ducked and ran to his display case. Snatching a knife, he whirled, throwing the knife with precision. To his utter amazement, she caught it.

"You can't defeat me." Conviction amplified her voice.

Cural grabbed and threw two more knives. She waved her hand, and the knives altered course and lodged in the wall. For a full half-minute, Cural froze.

"You're her," he whispered. "You're her! The Sularane. The madwoman who would destroy the world!" Cural's voice rose in pitch, apparently from panic.

"Not destroy!" Praxia threw down the knife she'd caught. "Save! Why do you people insist on twisting the prophecy or seeing equality as evil?"

Her words fell on deaf ears. Cural simply inhaled a choked breath and grabbed at his wall of weapons.

Soldiers burst into the room armed with everything from procured guns to steel rods.

"Stop her!" Cural screamed, then ran for the door, apparently forsaking all his dignity in his terror of the prophecy.

Praxia whirled and waved her arm before her. A spray of bullets bounced off of the air before her, and several soldiers cried out in both pain and fear. The glint of light reflecting off a steel club caught Praxia's eye; she struck out to deflect it. Not only did the club fly from the soldier's hand, but also the woman and the two men beside her flew back into the wall. Through what felt like pure instinct, Praxia circled her arms and hands toward herself and back out at the oncoming soldiers. They flew back and up into the wall and then fell unconscious to the floor.

Praxia stared at the heap of bodies and realized with horror that three were dead—pierced through the head or torso by bullets from the procured guns. Her gaze followed the trail of bodies to the corpse in the doorway. Cural, a bullet through his back.

Now was not the time for shock or horror. Praxia ran to the window and assessed the scene below. Grand Square was consumed with rioting: overturned vehicles, gunfire, stampedes. She had to stop them before the insanity spread and more people died. She had to get to the middle of the riot _now_—

A lightheaded, dizzying feeling jumbled her scenes. The vision before her smeared, the buildings and streets stretching sideways, then becoming streaks of color. A moment later, the streaks reversed and the scene righted itself, except she was no longer in Cural's office. She was on the street below. She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or vomit.

Pride and terror vied for possession of her, but she dismissed them both. A wave of troopers was charging for a cell of rioting civilians. Praxia lowered her chin and glared at the troopers; they flew backwards and were unconscious before they hit the ground. She jerked her head toward a motionless tank and pointed her finger at it. Sparks flew upward from it as she permanently disabled it.

"Praxia!" A teenage boy's voice distracted her. She glanced over her shoulder as a cut and bleeding Spock ran up to her.

* * *

Although he wasn't sure how he'd managed to do so, Spock had picked Praxia out from the mob around him. She looked like a woman possessed, her glare bearing down upon the crowd, and he'd immediately run to her side to find out what was wrong. When he called her name, however, she immediately focused on him and seemed normal again.

"Are you all right?" Praxia grabbed his arms as he reached her.

He started to politely pull away, but her grasp was abnormally strong. She didn't seem to be broadcasting her emotions, so he stopped struggling. "I am fine." He knew he was covered in small cuts across his face, neck, and hands and a phaser burn darkened his shoulder.

Praxia raised one eyebrow.

"I jumped through a window," he explained. "Thought I had a better chance of surviving that way."

"I should like to hear about that later," Praxia said. "As for the moment—"

"Soldiers!" Spock interrupted, realizing two sets of troops were closing on their position.

Praxia let go of Spock's left arm as she whirled to face the danger, but she seemed to forget she still held the other arm. With her right hand she pushed slowly outward, spreading her fingers.

Spock watched with a feeling beyond amazement as time itself ground to a near halt. Sounds warped and plummeted to silence. Praxia moved gracefully in a dance of defense. At what seemed normal speed, she swung her arm to the right. The mass of troops seemed to be hit by a pulse of invisible energy. Slowly their feet left the ground, their faces caught in looks of surprise. A few twisted mid-air like acrobats. Praxia then stepped forward and swung her arm to the left. A slow, powerful wind seemed to pick up the other group of troopers and arch them through the air sideways.

Finally, Praxia took a second step forward and released Spock's arm. Time jolted back to normal; the disorientation knocked Spock off his feet. The graceful, flying soldiers sped up to land unconscious with a normal-time _thud_. Praxia turned to face the rioting Irideani and clenched her fists at her sides. She squeezed her eyes shut. The wind picked up, whipping her hair about her face. Clouds appeared from nowhere and rushed across the sky. Lightening flashed, followed by a boom of thunder.

Then Praxia raised her hand and commanded in a voice that seemed to be everywhere at once: "Stop."

Awe and fear descended on those around Spock, and the silence rushed through the streets. An entire city of angry people grew still and quiet.

Not another shot was fired.

VII.

Spock watched from the side of the stage as Praxia faced an ocean of cameras. Once power had been restored to the city and surrounding area, an emergency press conference had been called and the U.S.S. _Sakura_ had been contacted. Spock's parents had transported down and had been reunited with their son; they now occupied a spot in the visitor's balcony.

Praxia, however, had requested that Spock stay closer by. Spock knew she'd had a taxing day: she'd first located and released the President, then used her abilities to help restore power and make the press conference possible. Now, it seemed, Praxia and the President needed to calm a great deal of terrified people.

"The world is not getting ready to end," Praxia calmly informed the cameras, and therefore the planet. She certainly didn't look like some she-demon come to end the world; she looked like an exhausted mortal. "In fact, I would like to present you with a live and well President Syralla." Praxia held out her arm, and the President joined her on the platform.

"First, I would like to assure everyone that everything is back under control." The President had a confident, soothing voice. "There is no cause to panic. General Cural was killed during the attempted coup; all the other generals and their troops have been taken into custody by loyal members of the army, navy, and space fleet. Investigation into the depth of the corruption has already begun. Therefore . . .."

Praxia sneaked off the stage and took Spock's arm. Spock glanced at his parents, but they weren't paying attention. Good enough. He allowed Praxia to pull him into the reception area where a victory party was being organized.

"Why did you leave the platform?" Spock asked as Praxia released him.

"Because my work here is done. Time for me to return to the Temple or perhaps go into hiding." Praxia stole a green cracker from the table spread.

"You mean you are not going to create a new world order now?" Spock would've never admitted to teasing her.

Praxia snorted. "I doubt it. The President and most of the _quie_ seem to be coming to terms with the thought I might be the Sularane. Even Amolla Dania has taken it better than I thought. But the noble _letii_ and some of the _ret_ seem afraid. I may spend the rest of my life defending myself against assassination attempts. We'll see." Praxia ate another cracker in silence. "And maybe the Sularane was never meant to create a new world order in the sense people have believed; maybe she was meant to foster spiritual equality, not political."

Spock nodded. "Although I cannot say I agree with acts of violence, I must admit the _quie_ and their underground rebellion seem to have forged their own destiny politically—or at least, they've begun."

"Indeed." Praxia smiled. "Maybe I need to work on equal access to the Temple and religion. That could mean many things, after all. Most of the _quie_ still can't read, even though slavery was ended long ago, so how can they ponder the KRI for themselves? There's so much to address."

"These sound like wise questions. I imagine the people are in good hands." He cocked his head. "You might also consider working with Federation doctors and scientists who may be able to determine the source of your unusual abilities. If your 'powers' come from your being a racial hybrid, then more people like you may be born in a not too distant future."

Praxia inclined her head. "Possibly. Or perhaps the Supreme Being simply blessed me with a tiny part of His power for a day so that I might divert a disaster. When I awaken tomorrow, I may be normal once again."

Spock raised an eyebrow in the gesture their species shared.

Praxia chuckled. "I thought you might say that. But yes, I'll consider your suggestion." She paused and watched him intently. "And what about you? Will you be returning to Vulcan now?"

"Yes. We will leave tomorrow morning. My father will return upon request after the political unrest abates, I am sure. But for now, we will leave you to yourselves." Spock hesitated. "I appreciate your . . . friendship. You've given me things to consider."

"As have you. I have benefitted from our friendship as well. I hope very much that I will meet you again someday."

"It is possible." Spock held up his hand in the Vulcan salute. "Live long and prosper, Kana Praxia."

Praxia held up her hand, thumb and index finger extended in the Irideani fashion. "May peace and wisdom be yours, Spock."

She started to walk away, then paused. "There is one more thing I'd like to say. It's what I've learned is the lesson for both me and my people."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "And what is that?"

"We cannot deny our own destinies, and as hybrids, no one can truly dictate to us what that means."

Spock nodded, for he had realized that much himself. "Indeed, I will make my own way. I have already begun."

Praxia bowed and left him with his own thoughts.

_A father's wishes versus a son's, _he thought. _I wish to join Starfleet, and there is no prophecy about my fate. Only my own life to live. I must do what I believe is best for my future._

Spock turned and headed back to where his parents mingled with the Irideani, but he did so with a heavy weight in his chest. Would his father be able to accept his decision? Would Spock be able achieve true communication with this man he respected so?

Time would shortly tell.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to Darkhelmetj, isadax, Karen, Firewolfe, Gunmage, Istoc, T'Leba, and Conscience's Coward!_


End file.
